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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26902495">no children</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaypadawans/pseuds/gaypadawans'>gaypadawans</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Les Misérables - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Post-Divorce, Songfic, i guess?</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 23:13:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>881</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26902495</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaypadawans/pseuds/gaypadawans</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire couldn’t look Enjolras in the eyes. He threw a sweater into a suitcase and sighed. One of the lamps was broken, giving the room an eerie atmosphere. Enjolras fidgeted with his hands, pretending not to see his husband take a final gulp from a bottle and drop it in the ground. He trips on it on the way out.</p><p>(literally just breakup/divorce angst)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>no children</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>tw mild suicidal thoughts!!!! nothing actually happens, they just don't take very good care of themselves!</p><p>i know the title is unoriginal but whatever. enjoy</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
  <span>Grantaire couldn’t look Enjolras in the eyes. He threw a sweater into a suitcase and sighed. One of the lamps was broken, giving the room an eerie atmosphere. Enjolras fidgeted with his hands, pretending not to see his husband take a final gulp from a bottle and drop it in the ground. He trips on it on the way out.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  
  <span>The neighbours almost call the police. They were yelling for hours. It was about the dog. It liked Grantaire a lot more, but Enjolras was the only one who remembered to feed it. They never had kids. Enjolras worried they would love Grantaire more, too. He didn’t worry about that now. Neither of them had thought about love in months. They didn’t know what it meant anymore.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Grantaire got sick. It was probably caused by a combination of existential despair, uncomfortable nights sleeping in people’s couches, and a growing hate for the life he built for himself. One afternoon, he went to what was once his home to get a blanket he had accidentally left behind. His mother had given it to him many years ago. She was dead now. He barely made it to the bed. His head was too heavy to stay awake. He hoped he never woke up. Enjolras found him asleep. His fever was concerning. When Grantaire awoke, there was soup, water and pills. There was a note telling him to be gone by friday. He didn’t know where Enjolras was.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The water was freezing and the sky was gray. Enjolras was knee deep in the ocean, his clothes clinging to his body. He screamed as loud as he could. He screamed until his throat hurt. There was no one around to hear it. His chest didn’t feel any looser. He couldn’t feel his feet. By the time he left, he couldn’t tell where the water ended and the sky began. Everything was dark. As he reached the sand, he wished he had walked in the opposite direction.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Their friends tried to be supportive. They tried not to pick sides. They let both of them stay over; let them cry loudly and then not speak for as long as they wished. It had been a mistake. When they did speak, it bled. No one truly knew how to deal with it. Some words shouldn’t be said out loud. Some insults couldn’t be forgotten. By the time they didn’t need a temporary place to sleep, they didn’t have any more couches to crash in.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
  <span>One day, somebody they loved very much died. A few people offered their condolences, separately. Neither of them got a comforting hug. They didn’t deserve it. The ceremony was somber. Grantaire stood by Enjolras’ side. He held his hand in his own and squeezed it tightly. There were no words involved. He knew what he meant. They left without saying goodbye. Enjolras felt the familiar touch of the ghost hand in his for weeks. When he thought about it too much, it burned.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Enjolras tried to distract himself from the constant pain in his head. He picked up books and read through them in one sitting. He ran. He played music. It didn’t work. Nothing would silence the voice in his head. The raspy, low, sarcastic voice in his head telling him to go fuck himself. He was so tired. He picked up his favourite book. It had a handwritten note in the title page, signed “love”. He threw it into his fireplace. The nearby library received an anonymous donation of over 300 books. Enjolras started smoking.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Sometimes Grantaire felt like he was going to die. He felt like he couldn’t breathe and his heart was racing and he would fall to the ground and hit his head. Sometimes, he wished it would happen. He did not tell anyone about it. He thought he could make it on his own. Before the day he decided to stop looking for reasons to stay alive, he walked to their old neighbourhood. The memories came flooding back into him like a dam that had broken. He thought of lazy sunday mornings at the booth in the back of a café with blue-framed windows. He thought of stolen kisses. He shut his eyes until it hurt and tried to think of anything, </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything </span>
  </em>
  <span>else. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t turn back. He reached the familiar street. The café had burned down.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  
  <span>It got warmer. It got colder. It got warmer again. Some things changed, but most things did not. The old, rusty subway car is full. A storm is coming; the air is crisp and electric. A familiar face catches a glimpse of a familiar face. Enjolras’s grip on the bar tightens. Grantaire squints his eyes. He jumps out before the doors close and walks away. That night, he cancels his lease and gets on a train. He walks to the ocean under the heavy rain and throws the memories into the water, one by one, desperately trying to free his mind from the ache of loving someone you hate. He doesn’t notice, but they float right back to him. One by one. His heart beats as loud as the thunder. He never went back to that beach in his life. Enjolras visited it every day.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>can you tell i wrote this after listening to no children by the mountain goats on repeat while taking a walk around the neighbourhood as it was about to rain because i was angry at life? lmao</p></blockquote></div></div>
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